Three Wishes
by Sandy S
Summary: This is the modern version of the fairytale, "Aladdin." How can Aladdin (Spike) win the heart of the beautiful Jasmine (Buffy)? Through magic, of course! Read, review, and enjoy! Part 4!
1. Default Chapter

Title: Three Wishes (1/?)

Author: Sandy S.

Email: ssoennin@juno.com

URL: http://www.secretloft.com/ed/

Disclaimer: I own nothing.  All belongs to Joss and UPN.  Also, the story of "Aladdin" is not mine.  The rest comes from the heart of my imagination! ;o)

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: None that I know of.  But to be safe, let's say. . . through the current episodes of season 7 (just in case I slip and make a reference).

Summary: This is a modern version of the story/fairytale, "Aladdin."  How can a poor young man named Aladdin (Spike) win the heart of the beautiful Jasmine (Buffy), daughter of the owner of a multi-million dollar restaurant and catering chain?  Through magic, of course!  :o)  Spike POV.

Special dedication: This is your Spuffy birthday present, dear Thia!  Happy 25th birthday to a wonderful friend!  I've only known you since July, but I feel like I've known you forever cause we instinctively know one another!  You are one of my best friends, and your friendship is cherished more than you know!

Three Wishes

Prologue 

I am not a bum.  

I never have been.  

People may think of me as a beggar. . . a mooch. . . but those who judge me thus do not know me. . .not really, and they never will.

Abandoned as a baby after my mother died in childbirth, I was quickly adopted by the older British man who delivered me in the seedy motel where my mother landed when the labor began.  Always telling me the story of my dedicated, loving mother's fight to keep me alive even as she died, he cared for me when I was a baby and through my early childhood.  Alas, he passed away as a result of what I now believe was some form of cancer.  I was only eight years old.  

I tumbled into the streets, a young, naïve boy with a sweet face, fair skin, dirty blond hair, and blue eyes.  As a result, a gang of hoodlums initiated me into their group when I was at a most impressionable age.  As gangs go, the group I joined was not a particularly violent gang.  I can't recall a single raid we made in which an innocent was harmed, raped, or killed.  

Oh, our gang was aware of the violence committed by other gangs, but our main objective was not the adrenaline rush described as accompanying the breaking of bones and tearing of flesh with weapons.  Instead, we strove merely to survive on the dangerous streets of Houston.  

I'm not saying that I never got into a fight or brawl.  When I had to, I fought for my life.  My small, lean frame disguised an underlying strength and instinctive discipline that made my opponents underestimate me.  Although my real name was Aladdin, I earned the nickname, "Spike," because I was the persistent thorn in our enemy's side.  Frequently, I won or stole food, supplies, and shelter for my fellow gang members for that very reason.  Bear in mind, I stole what I needed, not what I wanted.

The side I hid from everyone, including my fellow gang members, was my propensity to be a dreamer.  At night, when everyone else was asleep, I would lie awake, inventing faraway lands and adventures and imagining whirlwind romances with beautiful women.  I wrote poetry in the hallways of my mind, never putting words on paper.  One of my most cherished dreams was meeting my mother one day and telling her the accomplishments of my life.  A goal I kept even from myself most of the time was to make my mother proud.  

When I was eighteen, the gang dissolved.  Most of the members were older than me, and they began getting married and drifting away from their wily ways when they began to have children.  They became shadows of their former selves.  

I vowed never to fall into the trap of commitment and marriage and risk losing myself. . . until I saw Jasmine Summers on the television screen during the fall of my twenty-fifth year.

And that is where my tale truly begins. . .

* * *

Chapter 1 

"Spike, I'm headed out for a bite.  Do you want to come?" my friend, Xander asks as he pulls on his worn leather jacket.  

Xander is a tall, large-boned guy and is my only consistent companion.  He and I live in an abandoned building on the east side of downtown Houston.  He's my age, and neither of us do anything without consulting the other.  We always watch each other's back.

Tired from my walk across town earlier today to search for, I slouch on the tattered sofa we found on the side of the road last week.  Our previous couch had become infested with baby rats, so we disposed of the disintegrating furniture right quick.  In our makeshift living room, we have a sofa, a leaning bookshelf that we use as a television stand, and an old color television that Xander managed to rig together so that we get free cable.  

"Nah.  I got something earlier today."

"Okay."  Xander dons his baseball cap and grabs our half-broken umbrella.  "Don't watch too much T.V., or you'll rot your brain."

"Ha, bloody, ha.  Who died and made you my mother?"

Xander laughs as he exits our abode, and I listen to his footsteps pounding the stairs.  Once he is safely gone, I re-focus on the television screen.  I flip the channels brainlessly, skipping past the Monday night football game, the weather channel, and a rather raunchy lion attack on a pack of antelope on one of the nature channels.  

I pause at the worldwide news station.  An attractive young reporter with dark hair and green eyes fills the screen.  

"And in breaking news this afternoon, the owner of the world famous 'Sultan's' and the affiliated catering business, 'Flying Carpet Catering,' has announced his intention to find his daughter a husband.  Word is that his daughter, Jasmine, is not too happy with his declaration.  Jasmine was seen on the street today shortly after her father made his speech, and she did not appear eager to answer questions."  

I've heard of "Sultan's."  The exclusive restaurant has served many of the well-known people in the United States at one time or another.  The catering service has provided food and drink for multiple weddings of the wealthy, including those of actors, actresses, and politicians.  

Recently, Hank Summers, owner and founder of "Sultan's," branched out his business internationally in fourteen other countries.  He is an extremely wealthy man, and his daughter is lucky to have been born with such a silver spoon in her mouth.  She's also probably a spoiled brat.

Returning my thoughts to the screen, I notice that the scene has shifted.  The camera is upon a petite, slender, stylishly dressed blonde as she brushes by a sea of reporters and journalists.  She holds up her hands in front of her face as she ignores questions and heads toward a building entrance. 

The narrator continues her tale, but I ignore her words in favor of catching a glimpse of Jasmine's face.  What I witness astounds me.  She has tears coursing down her tanned cheeks.  For some unknown reason, my stomach clenches at her obvious pain.  She is so beautiful; she should be able to find a suitor in no time.  

The reporter's next words fill my head, "Word is that if she cannot find a proper husband, she will be forced to marry Nicholas Nefar."

A still picture of Nicholas fills the screen.  He is a tall, dark-skinned man with a rat-shaped face and long stringy hair that has been slicked back in a ponytail.  

"Nicholas is the son of wealthy oil tycoon, Randell Nefar.  He was kicked out of Harvard last semester and has recently been associated with three or four runway models in Paris.  He has a habit of spending money recklessly, but swears that if he becomes engaged to Jasmine, he will drop all such negative habits immediately."

No wonder Jasmine is unhappy.  Nicholas seems like a horrible player.

I watch as Jasmine is backed into a wall before she can reach the entrance to the building.  Microphones and bright lights are shoved in her face as she is asked to make a statement.  

Angrily, she locks her green, flashing eyes on the camera as she stares down the public.  "Do I *look* like I want to make a statement?  I just want to be left alone.  And Dad, please, if you're listening, let *me* decide who I want to marry."

As she shoves past the reporters and stalks into the building, the reporter concludes, "And that's all she has to say.  Were you listening Mr. Summers?  More on this story tomorrow.  This is Jenn Rogers, reporting live from 'News: Live.'"

I flick off the television and close my eyes, conjuring an image of the spirited blonde who seemed so sad.  With a sudden irrationality, I realize how attractive she is. . . not just in her appearance but with her obvious heart and conviction.  Part of me just wants to hold her. . . to erase her pain.  Part of me just wants a chance to have one conversation with her. . . to discover if she, like me, has a hidden side that she shares with no one.  

On impulse, I tap a well of energy I don't know I have.  Throwing aside the remote, I snag my long, black leather jacket and head into the evening.  

I have to know.

TBC. . . What will happen when Aladdin (Spike) meets Jasmine (Buffy)?  Stay tuned. . . we'll get to the magic in a bit! Promise! ;o)

Next chapter written will be for my other ongoing series, "Binding to Earth."  

Take care,

Sandy

http://www.secretloft.com/ed/ 


	2. Part 2

Chapter 2 

I don't go directly to "Sultan's" where I know Jasmine will be.  First, I have to find some offering. . . a small token.  She deserves something after the day she's had.  Therefore, I travel to Charlie's Pawn Shop.  I've known Charlie since I was a kid, and although he's somewhat of a thief to others, he's always been generous with me.  

The bell above the door rings as I enter Charlie's familiar shop, and he looks up from his magazine.  When he recognizes me, a broad smile spreads over his burly features, and he motions me toward him, putting out the cigarette he cradles between two fingers.

"Spike!  How are you?  What brings you here today?"  His voice is scratchy from chain smoking, and his face remains unshaven.  

"Well, I need a bit of a gift." 

"For Xander's birthday?  Didn't he have one a couple months ago?"  Charlie appears visibly confused because I only ever buy gifts for my friends.  Right now, Xander is my sole friend.

Suddenly, I can't meet his eyes anymore.  "Not for Xander.  For a *girl.*"  

"Really?  I'll have to think about that one.  What'd you have in mind?  Jewels?  Flowers?  Chocolates?  If it's flowers or chocolates, you're at the wrong shop."  

Glancing at him, I shake my head.  "No.  It has to be something. . . I don't know.  Better."

"Better?"  Charlie grabs his inventory book off the shelf and flips through the crusty pages.  "Hmm."

I pace nervously as he searches for something.  What if Charlie doesn't find anything?  What if Jasmine doesn't like what Charlie finds?  What if. . .

"Listen, Spike, if you don't stop marching back and forth like that, I'm gonna throw the cash register at you."

"Um.  Sorry."  I stop moving and shift back and forth in one spot.

"Got it!" he declares, slamming his inventory notebook closed.  "Wait right there, mister.  I'll be back in a jiff."

"What is it?" I call after his retreating form.

I barely catch his next words as he disappears into the depths of his cluttered storage room, "Something I should have thought of before. . ."

True to his word, Charlie emerges, bearing an object, which he ceremoniously holds out to me. . . a very dirty metal object.

"What is it?" I ask in a rather disgusted tone.

"A very special lamp. . . all the way from the lands of Arabs."  Charlie is disconcertedly in awe of his own inventory.

"It's disgusting.  How am I supposed to give that to Jasm. . . a girl?"

He plunks the lamp in my hands.  "Trust me.  It's a magical lamp.  Clean it up, and you've got a rare prize."

I am incredulous.  "Uh huh."

"Now go."  He shoves me toward the door.  "That's all I have for you today."

Exiting the shop, I sigh.  Back to square one.  

"And Spike?"  Charlie leans in the doorway, watching me.

"What?"  

"Good luck with Jasmine."  He lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

"H-how did you know?"  

He inhales deeply on the cigarette.  "Three other guys have been in here today for the same reason after that news special."

"Oh."  My stomach plunges.  I don't stand a chance.

He nods at me.  "Trust me.  I've given you the best deal with that lamp."

Looking down at the dust- and tarnish-covered lamp, I highly doubt him.  "Thanks."

* * *

Chapter 3 

The parking lot at "Sultan's" corporate offices is jammed with cars before six A.M.  Vehicles also flood the street and are parked in several neighboring business lots.  Two police cars are patrolling the lots, pinning what promise to be nice fat parking tickets on those cars parked illegally.  Lucky me, I don't own a car.

Heart hammering, I stride up to the building, bearing my still dirty gift.  Xander and I don't have reliable running water, so last night, I was unable to wash the lamp after I cleaned myself up.  I decided to come to "Sultan's" early in the hopes of sneaking into a bathroom in the main lobby to scrub down the metal.

As I enter the expansive, high-ceilinged lobby, my eyes widen.  I've seen such building on television programs but never dared set foot in one myself.  Paintings cover the ceiling, depicting scenes of the rich Arabian palaces of folklore, flying carpets, and mounds of gold and treasures.  One could get lost in the dreams that such scenes invoke.

I'm so busy staring up that I don't notice the woman in a business suit standing at my elbow until she speaks, "Hello, sir."

I almost jump out of my skin.  "H-hello."

She smiles gently at me.  "Are you here to see Miss Summers?"

"Y-yes, I am."  I straighten my shoulders.  How did she know?

My eyes follow the direction she points.  "Just go stand in line over there.  I'm sure she'll see you. . . sometime today."

The huge line of men snaking around the edge of the lobby makes my jaw drop.  "Wow.  What are so many people doing here?"

The woman chuckles softly.  "The line goes up the stairs for several stories, sir. Didn't you see the cars outside?"

I frown at the line.  "Yeah, I did, but I thought they were workers."

"Nope.  'Sultan's' had to be closed down for today because employees had nowhere to park."  Disappointment must have shown on my face because the woman pats my back sympathetically.  "Jasmine is one lucky lady to have so many potential suitors."

"Yeah."  I stare down at my pitiful gift.  What was Charlie thinking?  What was *I* thinking?  "Is there a restroom down here?"

"Sure.  On the opposite side.  Help yourself.  May as well make yourself comfortable." 

The woman has been nothing but nice to me.  "Thanks."

The bathroom is just as luxurious as the lobby with two large rooms, one filled with actual stalls and beautiful basins and one with richly colored lounging sofas and chairs and a floor to ceiling mirror.  The ceilings are lower but also painted with heavenly designs.  Thankfully, the entire facility is empty.  Probably no one wants to lose his place in line.

I hurry to the sinks, setting down the lamp to search for paper towels.  The only thing remotely resembling paper towels turns out to be a soft cotton-like material that deposited some sort of lotion to the skin.  Perhaps the lotion will give the lamp something akin to polish.  

Wetting the towel a bit, I wipe the material over the surface of the lamp.  Soon, I fall into a trance as I scrub the metal into a high-quality shine.  The more I work the lamp, the better the surface begins to look.  Maybe Charlie wasn't so far off the mark after all.  

As I am putting the finishing touches on the lamp, a puff of smoke begins rising from the lamp spout.  A bit alarmed, I step back, eyes widening.  What the hell had Charlie given me?  A bomb?  Great, what a way to impress a girl, blow her and her dad's business to kingdom come.

The smoke becomes thicker and thicker as I stand paralyzed in fear.  A vague thought tugs at the back of my mind: why isn't the smoke detector going off?  As I watch in amazement, a figure begins forming out of the haze.  

I blink once, and suddenly a red-headed young woman stands. . . actually floats before me.  She blinks a few times and rubs her eyes somewhat childishly.  She is dressed in a flowing forest green skirt and a matching lace blouse with long, bell-shaped sleeves and a short midriff that exposes her belly button.  Glitter covers her fair skin, face, and scarlet curls, lending her a look of peace and magic.  Around her neck, ankles and wrists, she wears golden manacles. 

Blue eyes widen as she studies me.  "Hi, sweetie.  What's your name?"

"M-my name?  Shouldn't I be asking *you* that question?  Who are you, and where did you come from?" I demand.

"Why, I came from the lamp, of course," she replies as if I am somewhat dense.  "Don't you know who I am?"

"Um, no, pet, I don't know who you are."  I cross my arms.  "How did you fit in that tiny lamp?"

She frowns slightly.  "I would have thought surely you'd know who I am since you called me forth from the lamp."

"I was just cleaning the lamp up."

Spinning in place and streaking glitter through the air, she asks, "What manner of place am I in now?"

"The men's restroom.  And you haven't told me who you are or how you fit in such a small face."

She halts mid-spin and catches my eyes again, proudly announcing,  "I am Willow, the genie of the lamp.  You called me forth by rubbing the lamp in which I was magically imprisoned.  I must grant you three wishes for freeing me from my prison."  She narrows her eyes at me.  "So, wish carefully, young one."

Laughter bursts from my mouth before I can stop myself.  "I have everything I want, witch."

A pout appears on her pretty face.  "I am *not* a witch!  I am a *genie!*  Got it?  GENIE!  And you have three wishes.  I can't go away until I grant you three wishes.  Surely, there's something you want. . . riches, a successful career, a house, power, what?"

I shake my head.  "None of those things," I murmur, fingering the decorative trim on the lamp.

Willow circles me, running a hand lightly across my shoulders.  "Ahhh.  There's something you want.  Does it have something to do with the lamp?  Were you going to give it to someone?"

What would be the harm in telling her the truth?  Telling the truth doesn't mean I've ceased being wary.  "I want true love and understanding."

Willow's face falls.  "True love is not a wish I can grant you.  I am sorry.  I can grant wishes that will make your path to true love easier, but I can't hand you true love on a plate.  That you have to earn yourself."

"Oh."  

She is uncomfortable with my disappointment, so she attempts to assuage me, "So, do you have someone in mind that you're trying to win over?"

I match her blue eyes with mine.  "Yes."

Willow smiles broadly and then clears her throat, slipping into business mode.  "Who?  Show me the girl and the situation, and I'll see what I can do to assist you."  

* * *

Chapter 4 

The ability to be invisible turns out to be a useful genie characteristic.  We swiftly and easily bypass the hundreds of suitors who remain unmoving on the stairs at the restaurant headquarters.  

As we pass the men, Willow whispers comments under her breath about each.  "Too fat. . . too tall. . . too nerdy. . . not good looking enough. . ."

I punch her lightly in the arm.  "Um.  What are you doing?"

She raises her eyebrows at me.  "Ruling out your competition.  Geez, this girl's got a bunch of suitors.  What'd she do to get so lucky?"

"Don't know if she's lucky, pet.  Her father sort of forced it on her," I inform the genie.

"Ohhh."  Willow shakes her head, holding up her bound wrists.  "Poor thing.  I know what it's like to be forced into something."

Sympathy shines in my eyes.  "I bet you do."

We reach the top of the stairs in record time.  Willow steps through the closed door marked "Staff Admittance Only."  I hesitate.  I can't pass through solid material.

Willow's arm and head reappear through the wood.  "Come on, you.  Don't stop now.  We're almost at our destination."

"Um, pet, I can't pass through solid wood."    
  


She takes me by the arm.  "When you're with me, you most certainly can."

Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I follow her through the wood, my skin tingling from the motion.  I open my eyes to find myself in another world. . . a world in which I never dreamed of being a participant.  Willow stalks through the offices that are void of people.  She takes no notice of her opulent surroundings until we reach a large, handsomely carved, wooden door.  On the other side, I can hear two voices, likely of Jasmine and her father.  

Without a second thought, Willow drags me through the door.

"Wow," Willow whistles softly.  "Jasmine or whatever you said her name was is filthy rich."

"No kidding," I breathe in awe.  

The office is richly decorated in deep colors and various expensive paintings and sculptures, but my eyes can't move from Jasmine's elegant form.  Her blonde hair is pinned up off her neck, and loose curls fall gently about her face.  Her slender body is wrapped in a long, flowered dress.  Surprisingly, she wears no expensive jewelry but just a simple necklace and cross.  I cock my head, listening intently to her conversation with her father who sits behind a splendorous desk.  

"No way, Father.  No way am I meeting with all those men out there!"  She points forcefully toward the line of men she can't see but knows is just beyond the door.  

"Yes, Jasmine, you will," Hank Summers insists.  "You've talked me out of many things before, but this time, I am not giving in.  I've obviously given in too much to you in the past.  Look how spoiled you are."

Jasmine rolls her eyes, and her spunkiness makes me smile.  "How many times have I told you. . . my name is not Jasmine.  It's Buffy.  I prefer Buffy."

Mr. Summers sips his coffee, not moved by his daughter's passion.  "A childish name that your mother used to call you when you were little.  You are a young woman now.  Your legal name is Jasmine.  I'd like you to use it."

"Jasmine is a shrub!  I am *not* a shrub.  My *legal* middle name is Elizabeth, and Buffy is a nickname for Elizabeth.  I prefer Buffy," the young woman, who instantly becomes "Buffy" in my mind, argues.

Mr. Summers frowns but ignores his daughter's arguments.  "Whatever, dear.  But you *will* meet with the men out there."

Buffy turns from her father and crosses her arms defiantly.  "Why are you doing this to me, Father?"  She cannot hide the sobs in her voice and breaks down then, her shoulders shaking and rivers of tears pouring down her face.

Mr. Summers rises and rounds the desk to face his daughter.  Wiping her tears away with a tissue, he cups her cheek.  "I always do things in my daughter's best interest. . . even if my daughter doesn't seem to think so at the time."

She gazes up at her father with emerald eyes that melt my soul.  "But forcing me to marry a stranger is *not* in my best interest, Father."

"It is in your best interest if it ensures the survival of 'Sultan's' and 'Flying Carpet Catering' after my death."

"But you aren't in danger of dying, are you?" she asks worriedly, fresh tears welling.

He catches the drops before they fall and hugs her close.  "No, my daughter, I'm not.  I just want you to be happy *and* have a chance to see how your spouse will treat you before I do die.  I don't want my daughter marrying a gold digger."

"I know, Father; I know."  

Willow squeezes my elbow, drawing me out of my trance.  "I think I know how I can help you win her heart."

TBC. . . Willow's plan is formed. . . and Spike meets Buffy for the first time.  How will he win over Buffy?  Find out next. . . ;o)  I know I said that they'd meet this chapter, but I had to lay a little more ground work. . . 

Thanks for the great reviews! Hope you enjoy this! ;o)

Take care, dears!

Sandy

http://www.secretloft.com/ed/  


	3. Part 3

_Chapter 5_

Back at my vastly different home that now seems dark and cluttered, Willow steps back and surveys me with her arms planted firmly on her hips.  "Uh huh.  I think that'll do it."  

"A new set of clothes will win over Buffy?"  I frown, examining my reflection.  Clad in a dark blue suit, off-white casual shirt and deep blue tie, I feel distinctly uncomfortable.  I'm not used to such attire.  

"Well, you do look quite dashing, if I may say so," my good fairy, a.k.a. genie, says thoughtfully.  

I've always thought of myself as fairly decent looking, not exactly handsome but not ugly either.  I've never looked in the mirror and thought "dashing."  "I don't think people use 'dashing' anymore, pet."

"Okay, scratch 'dashing' from the vocabulary.  How's handsome?"  

"Look, Willow, I don't feel like myself in this outfit."  I glance longingly at my black jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket.  "Why can't I dress as myself?"

Willow ignores me and narrows her eyes.  "Something isn't quite right."

"Bloody well right, it isn't!"  I'm rapidly losing patience.  

"I think it's the hair."  She reaches up to touch my carefully arranged, bleached curls.

My eyes widen in alarm.  "You are *not* touching my hair!  I like my hair just the way it is!"

Too late.

What I now know is "magic smoke" drifts through the air from Willow's fingertip and encircles my head.  "Damn it, witch!"

The smoke clears.  Gone is the bleach that I so consistently keep up.  My hair is coiffed into a nice blondish-brown style that I've seen on commercials.  I'm now a businessman, ready for the first day of my new job as head of a corporate company.  All I need now is a briefcase.  I scowl at myself.

"Don't frown.  Your face might freeze that way," Willow teases, overlooking my "witch" comment.  "We have to change your name, too.  I think Spike is a little over the top.  What did you tell me your real name is?"

"Aladdin."

"Well, you'll officially go by Aladdin. . . . What's your last name?"

I use the name of my adopted caretaker, "Giles."

"Aladdin Giles."  Willow beams at me.

"I have a small problem with what you've done to me," I state when I'm sure I have the genie's full attention

"And what's that?" 

"How am I supposed to win Buffy if I can't even be myself?"  The question seems to have an obvious answer, but I don't suppose Willow will give me the one I expect.

I'm right.  "You're not going to win Buffy over with just your looks, silly."

"*Exactly* my point!  So, turn me back.  Fix me."  I sound like I'm whining.  I'm not normally a whiner.  The outfit and the hair are turning me into a poofter.  Boy, I'm glad Xander's not home yet to see me wearing this get up.  

Willow bats her eyes at me.  "No, you look great.  You're just going to use your looks to get Buffy to notice you.  Why, you look better than any of those guys who were standing in line at the office!  After she notices you, then you'll turn on the charm, be yourself. . . show her who you are."

"Like a butterfly to a candle?"  I'm starting to understand the relevance of what the genie's doing.

"Yes."  She nods.

Something suddenly dawns on me.  "I don't understand.  You magically did whatever you did to give me this outfit.  Where do the wishes come in?"  

"Ahhh.  Good question."  Willow lifts a finger as if I've hit upon the idea of the century.  "Now that you have the proper look, you must wish to be wealthy."

"Wealthy?  I have no use for riches," I scoff.  

Willow is insistent, "Don't you understand that you will have to be wealthy to even have a chance with Jasmine?"

"Buffy.  Her name is Buffy," I correct, recalling Buffy's expression when her father called her Jasmine.

"To have a chance with *Buffy*, you'll have to have a full pocketbook."  

"I don't even own a wallet.  I've never had a bank account, and I have never kept more than twenty dollars in my pocket at one time," I maintain proudly.  "I don't need money to win Buffy."

Willow changes tactics, "You may not need money to win Buffy, but you will need money to win over her father."

I sigh.  Why does this witch, genie, whoever she is, always have to be right?  "Okay.  How should I word the wish?"

"Word it anyway you like.  I'll carry it out how I like."

"Now that's fair," I complain, rolling my eyes.  I give up.  "All right.  I wish to be wealthy."

"Good job.  Now don't move while I concentrate."  Little lines form between Willow's eyebrows as she dons a determined expression.  

Smoke erupts out of her fingertip, and my world is transformed in ways I have only dreamed about.

* * *

_Chapter 6_

"What the hell happened to the house?" Xander bellows as he charges up the now exquisitely fashioned stairs.  

Having been expecting my roommate, I brace myself for his reaction to the total transformation of the abandoned building where we've been living for the last three years.  I'm still a bit shocked by my surroundings myself.  Willow has agreed to allow me to tell Xander about her to help explain the mansion that's been literally thrown up around me.  

Xander is out of breath as he reaches the sitting room where I'm lounging in the same stupid business suit Willow is forcing me to wear.  His eyes are big as saucers, and his face is pale as if he's seen a ghost.  He probably thinks he's in some sort of alternative dimension, especially if he's seen the foyer and the kitchen complete with maids and a cook.

"*What*, I repeat, is going on here?" he demands at the top of his lungs.  

The pat story I had down suddenly drifts out one ear, and I try to do an impromptu explanation, "Um, well, it's kind of a long story.  I went to Charlie's to get a gift for a girl, and he gave me this lamp. . ."

"I almost didn't think I was at the right place!  The only clue I had was the fact that Mr. Andrews is still living by the garbage can under a cardboard box outside!"  Xander pauses in his rant as my appearance sinks in.  "And why the hell are you wearing such a pansy-looking outfit?  And what'd you do to your hair?"  

"I. . . um, you like the new look?"

"No," Xander says bluntly.

"Good.  Well, I hate it, too."  I glare at Willow in the shadows.

She decides to make her fortuitous entrance at that moment.  "Hello!  You must be Xander!  Aladdin has told me so much about you!"

Xander gives Willow the once over.  "Is this the chick that you went to see Charlie about?  Cause she isn't. . ."

"Umm, no," I hurriedly cover because I know Xander's about to say that Willow isn't my type, and I don't want to anger the genie in any way.  "Willow's a friend.  She actually did all this."  

"Oh."  Xander raises his eyebrows with renewed interest.  I know he's wondering if she's single and available.  

"She's a genie."  I don't know quite what else to say to make him understand.  

"A *what*?"

Willow grins at him and raises her arms to show off her golden restraints.  "Yep.  A genie.  Licensed and everything!  That's how you got this house.  Aladdin wished for it!"  

Xander chooses to ignore the wish part and focuses on the irrelevant, "Aladdin?  He doesn't go by that name!  He goes by. . . ."  The phone begins to ring shrilly.  Xander's attention zooms to the source of the sound.  "When did we get a phone?"

"Since Aladdin wished to be wealthy!" Willow continues, undaunted.  

A lanky man dressed in grey, my butler, comes from the direction of the library and picks up the phone.  "Hello!  You've reached the Giles Manor.  How may I help you?. . . One moment, please."  My butler presents me the cordless phone, carefully covering the receiver with his hand.  "Mr. Giles, there's a Mr. Summers on the phone.  He said it's urgent.  Would you like to speak with him?"

Willow gives me a thumbs-up sign.  Xander raises both eyebrows.  I shrug and take the phone from the butler.  Here goes nothing!

* * *

_Chapter 7_

Apparently, Mr. Summers makes his daughter's dates for her. . . at least of late.  Since I wished to be wealthy, I've also become well known within the city for being an eligible young bachelor.  Mr. Summers didn't waste time ferreting me out of the plethora of men after his daughter.  

So, here I am in the living room, waiting for my first date with Buffy.  The clock on the mantle above my new marble fireplace reads five minutes past seven.  She's late.  My stomach is doing flip-flops.  I can't recall when I've felt this nervous.  I quit smoking a couple of years ago, but I must admit that I snuck in a few while I got ready.  I hope she doesn't notice.  

Willow approaches me, wearing a long, white gown.  She takes my hands in hers.  "You're shaking.  Don't be nervous.  It's going to be okay.  Just go out with her like it's a normal date.  Be yourself.  She'll be won over by your charm."

I shake my head.  "You don't understand.  I've never been on a real date before. . . not a proper one."

Willow isn't even fazed by my lack of experience.  "Don't worry.  You'll be just fine.  And I'll be here if you need me. . . just a phone call away.  You got the cell phone?"

"Yeah.  And the little paper with the phone number on it."  I don't even know my own phone number at the mansion.  How competent am I going to look?  "What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry about me.  I have Xander and a house full of servants to keep me company.  Just have a good time."

I nod my head.  "Okay."  The doorbell rings, and I about jump out of my skin.  "She's here!"

The butler answers the door before I have a chance to gather my jacket.  Disappointment rips through my gut when I notice that Buffy hasn't come to the door, but her limousine driver has.  I thank my butler and follow the driver to the long, white stretch limo that rests in the driveway.

Heart hammering like an out of control racehorse, I slip inside the dimly lit cavern of the vehicle.  My breath catches when Buffy fills my vision.  She looks like a goddess dressed in a black leather skirt and beautiful white peasant top that shows off her delicate collarbones and neck.  Her blonde hair is swept up in a chignon of curls that make me just want to pull her close to me and bury my hands in her hair.  

The scene would be perfect except for the frown she wears on her face and the fact that she's avoiding my gaze.  Self-conscious about my own "corporate" wardrobe, I curse Willow for not letting me dress how I wanted.  

As the limo begins to drive away, I try to catch her eye and introduce myself, "Hi, I'm Aladdin. . . Aladdin Giles."

She doesn't reply.

I try again, "I hope we can have a nice time tonight."  There, that wasn't so bad.  

What comes out of her mouth shocks me, "What kind of name is 'Aladdin'?  How lame is that?"  Her green eyes blaze through my skull as she turns to me for the first time.

My temper rises before I have a chance to hold it back.  "What about *Jasmine*?  Isn't that a shrub?"

"My name is *Buffy*!" she snaps.  

Boy, what a bitchy little shrew.  No wonder she hasn't married.  "Like that's much better than Jasmine.  Whoever heard of the name Buffy anyway?"

"Actually, *Aladdin*," she retorts with an emphasis on my name that makes me cringe, "I believe there's actually a singer or something with that name.  Anyway, it's short for Elizabeth."

"Well, I prefer Spike," I practically shout.  "*Not* Aladdin!"

"Spike?  That's even lamer than Aladdin.  How'd you get that nickname?"

Wouldn't you like to know, sister!  "So, where are we going for dinner?"

She crosses her arms.  "You know I'm only going on this date with you because my father's making me."

My anger dictates one response, but the memory of her father's selfishness gives me pause.  I offer her a regretful smile, and my words are soft,  "Yeah, I know."

The contempt in Buffy's eyes melts away, and for a second, I glimpse her vulnerability.  Silence reigns for the rest of the ride.  A few minutes later, she lets me take her arm to assist her when she climbs out of the limo.  She gives me a small smile as we enter the restaurant.

Maybe this evening won't be a waste after all.

TBC. . . What happens on their first date?  Will Buffy return to her bitchy self?  Stay tuned. . . .  

Next chapter will be chapter 10 of "Binding to Earth!"  

Also, I've written my first NC-17 ficlet. . . nothing brilliant. . . but it's at my site: Eternal Devotion: http://www.secretloft.com/ed/ if you wanna take a peek! 

Thanks for the great reviews!!! :o) They help me keep writing!

Take care,

Sandy :o)


	4. Part 4

Chapter 8  
  
I pull the chair out for Buffy, and she settles onto the edge perfectly. She smiles up at me in thanks, and my heart soars. How can one person's reaction have such an effect on me? The waiter attempts to hold my chair for me, but I nudge out of the way and take a seat, never removing my eyes from her, even when the waiter hands us our menus.  
  
The waiter runs through the specials, but I don't hear anything he says. Neither, apparently, does Buffy. When the noise ceases, I finally glance up at him.  
  
He stares back at me. Finally, he reiterates, "Do you need a few minutes to decide, sir?"  
  
I hesitate, "Um. Do you know what you want, Buffy?"  
  
Buffy's dreamy smile transforms into a grin. "Yep." Her green eyes not wavering off of mine, she orders, "I'd like the grilled chicken with mixed vegetables and rice. Spinach salad to start and a glass of blush wine with an extra glass of water, please."  
  
My mouth falls open in shock at her flawless utterance.  
  
"And you, sir?" The waiter visibly turns to me. "What would you like this evening?"  
  
"Um." I don't know quite what to order. "I've actually never been here before. What do you recommend, Buffy?" Phew, good save, Spike. Don't want to look like you don't know what you're doing in front of the lady.  
  
"Never been?" The waiter is incredulous that I'd admit such a thing. Apparently, most people who enter this facility know exactly what they want before they even sit at the table.  
  
Buffy merely winks at me and addresses the waiter, "Well, Perry, he'll have the petite filet, medium well with a baked potato and a spinach salad." Briefly, she faces me again. "The spinach salad is excellent. It's got little almonds sprinkled in. Trust me." She readdresses the waiter, "He'll have the same wine and extra water as well. May as well bring us the bottle to drink. Make it extra chilled, if you don't mind."  
  
By the time the waiter walks away, I'm grinning back at Buffy. "Thanks."  
  
"No problem." She sweeps aside her utensils and unfolds her napkin, placing it in her lap. "So, you must be quite the recluse if you've never been here before."  
  
I imitate her napkin rearrangement and take a sip of water. "What? Well, I'm, um, new in town." Gosh, I sound like such a dork. Xander would be rolling his eyes at my stuttering about now. . . me, the thorn in other gangs' side, nervous as a canary cornered by a cat.  
  
"Well, at least you can admit to never having been to 'Sultan's.'" She sighs heavily. "You wouldn't believe how many guys have claimed to be experts on the restaurant. I knew more about the place than they will ever dream of knowing with Dad owning it and all."  
  
Oh, bugger. I didn't even pay attention to what restaurant we entered. Got to pay more attention to the little details, Spike. "Oh, um, yeah. Never been. Don't worry, I won't be pretending to know something I don't."  
  
"Good. Me either. One thing I can't stand is a fake." She nods thanks to the waiter as he arranges the bottle of wine, pours Buffy and I a glass, and sets down a basket of dinner rolls.  
  
"Me, too." My stomach plunges a little as I realize that I'm busily deceiving her about who I am. I try to reassure myself that I'm not really a liar. I am, after all, rich now. I break a piece of bread in half and apply some butter to the steaming insides. "So, you found anyone you like yet?"  
  
Buffy chooses a dinner roll and allows me to add some butter. "What do you mean?" she asks, nonchalantly.  
  
"I mean, you mentioned that your father's forcing you to go out with various guys. Of all the dates your father's set you up with, you found anyone you like?"  
  
She blushes at my question. "Maybe."  
  
"Maybe?" I sip my wine.  
  
Her eyes sparkle at me. "I'll have to wait and see how it goes, but yeah, maybe."  
  
My eyes widen as I realize that she means me! I grin. "So, what do you like to do for fun?"  
  
* * *  
  
Chapter 9  
  
Dinner was hugely successful. The salad was deliciously green and full of almond crunch. The steak and potato melted in my mouth, and the banana dessert cooked in front of us by the chef was fabulous. The food was probably the best I've ever tasted.  
  
However, by far the best element of the entire meal was Buffy herself. I found that we had a lot in common, but Buffy was different enough from me to keep me intrigued, to hold my interest.  
  
The check arrives all too soon for me. Buffy lays her hand over the black folder before I have a chance to snatch up the bill.  
  
"I've got it," I insist, sliding the folder out from under her hand. "I want to."  
  
Buffy shakes her head. "You don't understand. Father pays for all the meals I eat here. I just have to hand over my card to remove the payment."  
  
"Not tonight, you're not." I pull a wad of cash out of my wallet. "I'm paying. Even if it is your father's restaurant."  
  
"But. . ."  
  
Stopping Buffy's protest with a smile, I count out the bills to make sure I cover the proper amount with a generous tip. "Okay. Let's get going." I grab her hand and help her up from the table.  
  
"Where are we going?" she asks, a bit bewildered, but not letting go of my hand.  
  
"Back to the limo for a ride to my house. And then, you'll see what. . ."  
  
Whoa. What are all those people doing out in front of the restaurant with lights and cameras and other equipment? What are they so eager about?  
  
"Oh, damn it," Buffy curses, a scowl marring her earlier happy face.  
  
I'm surprised by her flash of anger and pleased that she feels comfortable enough around me to curse aloud. "What?"  
  
"Reporters. Welcome to my world. Dad's made a mess of things; I've never had to deal with it this bad before. Usually it's pretty quiet. I just don't understand why he does these things to me. Sometimes I think he has it out for me. But then, I remind myself that he loves me." She's babbling. "What'll I do? This is the only way to the limo." She looks up at me with big, frightened eyes, making me want to do anything for her.  
  
Using my skills at getting out of sticky gang situations, I take a firmer grasp on her hand and begin hurrying her to the back of the restaurant while maintaining an outer composure that doesn't arouse suspicion with the wait staff or the patrons.  
  
"Where are we going?" she wonders aloud.  
  
I pause and gaze into her meadow-green eyes. "Do you trust me, Buffy?"  
  
"Yes, I do. . . Spike."  
  
My heart thrills at her first use of my name. "Then, follow me."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Buffy draws on my energy and is soon following me under her own momentum as I drop her hand and lead her through the kitchen and into the back alley. The dumpster stench makes her wrinkle her nose.  
  
Welcome to my world. "Ready?"  
  
"Ready for what?" She stands with her legs spread and a breathless expression.  
  
"To make a run for it."  
  
She glances doubtfully down at her leather skirt and heels. "Run?"  
  
I return her wink from earlier. "Okay, walk real fast."  
  
She nods, accepting the challenge, and we rush through the alleyways and between buildings that are as familiar to me as the back of my hand. A few minutes later, we emerge onto a fairly busy side street just as a taxicab is driving past.  
  
Placing two fingers to my lips, I whistle, and the cab graciously comes to a stop. I sweep open the door for Buffy, and she offers me a grin before hopping inside. I climb in after her and slam the door shut. Telling the driver my address, we settle back into the ride.  
  
Buffy says nothing for a minute or two, and I start to worry if I've somehow frightened her or turned her off. Then, her warm hand creeps into my larger one, lacing fingers with mine.  
  
"That was amazing, Spike."  
  
I glance over to witness her watching me with a satisfied smile. "Yeah?"  
  
She squeezes my palm against hers. "Yeah. Perfect ending to a perfect date."  
  
An idea springs to life in my head. "It's not over yet."  
  
"What do you mean?" She seems startled by my unexpected revelation.  
  
"You'll see, pet. You'll see."  
  
TBC. . . What else does Spike have planned for Buffy? Is this the perfect romance? Or is something about to go drastically wrong? Stay tuned. . .  
  
Thanks for the great reviews! Your feedback is most appreciated! *g* ;o) *hugs*  
  
Sandy 


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